


Vice

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Assassins & Hitmen, Bloodplay, Clothed Sex, Contracts, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, F/M, Gunplay, Humanstuck, Implied Relationships, Marijuana, Organized Crime, Prostitution, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Recreational Drug Use, Schoolgirls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angry, restless, manipulative, and violent 16-year-old Damara Megido lives a high-risk life wishing she was dead. When she makes the mistake of trying to work over 29-year-old Caliborn, she ends up on the receiving end of an interesting offer: "I can kill you right here, right now. Or, I can give you a reason to get up in the morning: Work for me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different.

                A pale and unshaking hand moved with confidence and precision, reflected in the large, illuminated oval mirror mounted behind an old, wooden dresser. It was painted a bone white color years ago, when the finish was glossy and smooth, but had been reduced to near dilapidation; its three drawers were covered in scratches, peeling at the paint and revealing the brown, lightweight wood underneath, with chips on the corners of its top. In comparison to the shining, flawless mirror, it was beyond repair. It served its purpose to its owner, however.

                On the top of the dresser were carefully-organized rows of nail polish, all vertically arranged on the left hand side. Every bottle was a shade of red: deep rust, scarlet, blood, cardinal red, crimson and carmine, to a sweeter, stickier red like candy apples. The next row was for the eyes: black, charcoal, and brown eyeliners, pristine and sterilized pairs of tweezers of varying size and accuracy, half a dozen tubes of mascara, and seemingly endless palettes of eye shadow in browns, grays, and gilded hues, also organized to reflect a spectrum. Next were lipsticks, similarly all red and sorted, lip glosses, lip liner, practically endless, ended at last with the rows of face and hair-related products: astringents, moisturizers, foundations, hairspray, hair clips, hair _sticks_ , heat protectant spray, styling lotions – all the best money could buy, safely kept in a small bedroom with mint green walls and a small bed on the old wooden floor, covered in “well-loved” manga and stuffed animals that covered the sugar-pink and red heart-patterned sheet and matching pillows.

                She had already finished her hair, carefully flat-ironed and sprayed in place, pulled back into a bun that concealed her black locks’ true length. She had secured it with countless, carefully placed pins, held and topped with a pair of light brown hair sticks inside of the bun. Two long locks remained at the front, framing her small, feminine face. They curled ever the slightest bit, revealing her mixed heritage; she hated them. No matter how many times she applied heat and irons to them, they remained curvy wisps that refused to concede. To those who did not live in the ethnic conclave part of town known as East Beforus, Damara Megido looked like any other daughter in the Asian community there; to her eyes, though, she caught details that she detested but knew how to utilize.

                She began with her eyes, her small and poised hand working with quick and experienced ease to apply a soft bronze tone to her lids. The color was subtle enough to pass for school, but the color was enough to bring out the comparatively lighter shade of her eyes. They were dark brown, yes, but with flickers of a softer, honeyed tone; her classmates’ eyes were almost always close to black. She applied liner strategically to bring out the shape of her eyes as well. It was, in her opinion, the feature she hated the most – the shape of her eyes favored more her white, American father’s than her Japanese mother’s, and it was obvious to anyone who lived around them that she was, as some muttered under their breath, a “half breed.” Damara was certain, at 16 now, that her parents’ background differences contributed to their divorce years and years ago. Her father had taken her little sister, Aradia, to live with him, cutting the “half-breed” family aptly in two. A double shame for her and her mother, but Damara managed to keep her head above water in her own ways.

                She prepared her eyebrows with similar precision, choosing a mascara with a reddish tint that showed in the light, working methodically without smudge or error before curling each set of lashes. Lastly, she worked on her lips. They were her best feature without a doubt, soft and large and always inviting. That didn’t mean they could go without treatment, however. She picked her favorite shade of striking crimson lipstick, opening her mouth and getting closer to the mirror to apply it slowly and carefully. Her eyes were fixed on her mouth, determined, cold, and critical. Not until this was done could she leave.

                 Afterwards, she blotted and applied a soft, quick gloss, and knew she could head out to school. She was already in her uniform: a white top with a pleated skirt in muted red that fell to her knees (which she always hiked up about an inch) with simple white socks and black dress shoes. Her high school was private and required uniforms; her “education” was the only gift her father had given her since the divorce. It was, apparently, the least he could do to calm his conscience in regards to Damara’s mother, who watched her “precious little girl” turn into a delinquent. At least at this point, the still-called Mrs. Megido knew better than to try to reason with her daughter, opting instead to rationalize her behavior as wonderful blessings.

                Damara picked up her slate-colored, tattered backpack, containing one notebook, two pencils, a pen, a bag full of emergency makeup, and a pair of black heeled shoes, and walked down the creaky, old staircase from her room to the main floor, completely ignoring her short, rail-thin mother in the kitchen with breakfast for the two of them. She didn’t care much for breakfast; the only thing Damara craved first thing in the morning was a cigarette, and she certainly wasn’t going to get any of that in the house.

                Mrs. Megido called to her daughter from the small table in Japanese, “Damara, sweetheart, have breakfast with your mother! You have enough time today!”

                Damara said nothing, not even turning to face her mother to say goodbye or acknowledge her as she sauntered out the door with a swing in her hips, slamming the door hard enough that her mother swore she heard the glass windows shake.

                _Such a strong girl_ , her mother thought. _A beautiful, strong, confident girl._ She took a sip of her morning orange juice, hoping that something sweet would help her swallow back the bitter distortions she had been telling herself since Damara hit puberty. She knew her daughter was up to no good, probably heading to school early to start another fight. Or worse: could she be skipping again? Maybe she could get a part time job to teach her some responsibility and keep her close to home – oh, who was she kidding? That would only give her a greater means to leave all the time.

                Mrs. Megido sighed, letting her face fall into her hands as she recited a small prayer in her native language, begging God to protect Damara, to send her hope, friends, a guardian angel – anything to keep her safe and alive. She hadn’t seen her daughter truly happy or joyful in ages.


	2. Chapter 2

                Damara already had her plans in order for the day: go to school, cut the classes she had with that Peixes girl who loved to mock her by hiding in the bathroom, make a few quick bucks, buy herself lunch, and head out before her afternoon classes for a quick drag and more of her work. She figured that what her mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, but she was still extremely careful about how she went about it.

                The only person who knew anything about her little “side job” was her best friend Rufioh. When she finally arrived at school, taking a shortcut through the grimy and pungent alleyways of East Beforus to St. Andrew’s Academy, Rufioh was already waiting near her steel-gray colored locker with a smile on his face. He was one of the only people who spoke to her in school; both of them were, socially speaking, outcasts. While Damara looked exotic and obviously different from most of her classmates by no fault of her own, Rufioh tended to draw attention to himself with a brightly-dyed red and black mohawk, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his elbows, replacing the drab tie with his own bronze one, and placing bone-shaped pins on the black vest of his uniform. It got him in trouble a few times, but he knew how to charm most anyone, even with his less popular interests like anime, manga, and card games. He was the lovable renegade, of sorts.

                It was why their classmate, a young man with the last name Zahhak, ended up so smitten with him.

                Damara and Rufioh never conceptualized their relationship when she started attending school with him; they were naturally outcasts, drawn together by social forces at first, then by mutual interests. It was more of an instance of luck than anything else, but over time, their friendship grew. There were no real boundaries to it; Damara didn’t see a point in them. Why try to restrain something she knew from experience to be uncontrollable, out of her hands? Still, she felt a pang of sorrow and betrayal when she found out the boy she had kissed and held more than once was seeing someone else. Rufioh was the only person around her who could truly understand her, and she was well aware that she didn’t have to say a word to him to communicate how hurt she truly was. It was why he had become so protective of her, even more willing to help her, and even more _afraid_ of her as she became cold and distant. He wanted to say he loved her in some form, but he knew what he was feeling was _guilt_ – agonizing and completely justified guilt, holding him to her side even as the girl he cared about slowly became something he didn’t recognize. Still, he kept a sanguine temperament with her.

                “Hey there, Damara doll...” Rufioh started, smiling at her as she opened her locker.

                “Good morning.” Her tone was flat. Lifeless.

                “You’re here early...” He always spoke with a trail at the end of his phrases, inviting people to listen with intrigue. Damara, however, was unaffected. It wouldn’t work on her anymore.

                Without making eye contact, Damara made a quick exchange of items in her backpack for the ones in her locker. She stuffed her schoolbooks into the topmost shelf, quickly picking up the bright red, tight dress hanging from a small bar underneath. She folded it up and placed it with the black heels in her backpack. Rufioh watched as she zipped her backpack up and put it back on, concerned and scared. Still, he knew he had to try. He brought an arm around her shoulder and asked her in a hushed tone, double-checking if anyone else – especially Peixes -- was within earshot.

                “There are better ways to make money. Why you gotta do _that_ of all things?”

                She sneered at him, gazing at him confrontationally. “It’s fun.”

                “I know that’s not true—“

                “It is.” There was a thrill, a dark sense of amusement and power, in knowing she could make grown men salivate and listen to her every whim. Sure, she didn’t experience any _joy_ or _pleasure_ from it, but that wasn’t really the point. She simply had to look pretty, pretend, and do what she was asked; most men assumed she was stupid, and she let them believe that. They were more than happy to give her whatever amount she asked for.

                Rufioh changed his strategy, realizing she wouldn’t break under that kind of scrutiny. “You could get arrested!”

                “I am 16. If a man touches me, it’s his fault, not mine,” she responded caustically. She started to walk to their shared homeroom a few yards ahead, Rufioh never allowing her to get ahead of him. He had been wanting to ask her about this for a long time, even though he knew he had no place to say too much given his own shady relationships.

                Rufioh sighed. “What kind of men even... _pay_ girls for that? I mean, they gotta know you’re not 18—“

                “That’s part of the thrill for them.”

                “Fucking sick – I mean, freaking sick,” he said as he quickly corrected himself, not wanting to swear. “ _Them,_ not you.”

                “No need to flatter me.” She knew what she was: a little empty slut, a broke and broken girl like Meenah Peixes loved to remind her of. Her mother couldn’t work; she was too out of it and traumatized from her last job and her divorce. Her father’s money barely kept the roof over their head, and if she was being honest with herself, Damara never really _felt_ together in the first place. She couldn’t truly place why. Regardless, she did what felt right, and if flirting and baiting some old morons kept money in her pockets, then that was simply what she would do.

                “Doll, look,” he cooed as he held open the door for her, allowing both of them to enter the empty classroom, numbered 216. “If it’s just money, I mean, we ain’t got much, but—“

                She cut him off, raising her voice just enough to give it _bite._ “I do _not_ want _your_ pity.”

                He understood immediately. “I just want to help you out...”

                “A little late,” she replied as they both sat down. Rufioh looked like he had been shot through the chest by her response.

                “Are you, you know...being careful, at least?” His eyes moved to look at her wrist. _Dammit, she had forgotten to cover it this time._ There was a round, blue and brown _bruise_ on her right wrist, obviously from being manhandled.

There was no avoiding the topic this time. A few times, some of the men were a little rough with her. They tended to pay extra, though – something about not wanting to break a “precious China doll” – and so she learned to live with it. She was so concerned about her face that she must have let it slip her mind.

                “I’m not getting pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking,” she offered, trying to find some way to deflect his questions.

                “I know you’re not,” he snapped, finally getting the courage to hold her small wrist in his hand, bringing it up to his brown, coppery eyes. “I meant _this._ ”

                Damara sighed and looked down. “It’s not important.”

                “You’re important!”

                “Coming from you of all people?” Rufioh frowned again; he couldn’t seem to win. Even then, Damara knew better than most of her exact place in the social structure of their town. She was insignificant, broke, a leech. She wouldn’t live long – or at least many privileged folk hoped she wouldn’t. It was something she had simply come to accept.

                “...Fine,” he forfeited. “You ever at least think about...” he whispered, “getting like, a _pimp_ or something? Don’t they protect their girls?”

                She couldn’t help but laugh bitterly; the sound made Rufioh’s face become rigid with unease. “No.” Damara still had a bit of pride in her, wanting some bit of control over her life, even if it was a path to destruction. She couldn’t imagine giving herself up to some random, shady, probably broke and filthy peddler who wouldn’t really care about her. Rufioh’s suggestion was completely self-contradicting.

                “Just take care of yourself, doll...” He wondered if she was going around and hooking up senselessly because of him. Maybe it was the divorce she mentioned. Maybe it was something else. Maybe she really did just enjoy the thrill of it, but he still didn’t like knowing his best friend – his former girlfriend, maybe – was going around with strange men doing God only knows what. He really wasn’t sure how she managed the two lives – it was like she could manipulate time itself.

                When the warning bell rang and their instructor – a male in his late fifties who always seemed to give her passes to leave if she wished – gave Damara the quick once-over as she stretched suggestively, Rufioh suddenly understood exactly who her clientele were, and why she could get away with everything she did. It made him sick, but there wasn’t much he could do. He always knew her as so kind, so vulnerable, and so bright. Yet there she was, painted up and playing with her skirt, and he swore he could see the light in her eyes dim a little bit.


End file.
